Читать книгу Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night - Lewis Grizzard - Страница 28

Getting Rid of Ants Is No Picnic

I was home visiting the folks in Moreland, Georgia, and my stepfather, H.B., and I walked out into the front yard.

Over near the driveway, I noticed a couple of large anthills.

“I’ve tried everything I know to get rid of these ants,” said my stepfather. “I even put grits on them.”

For a second, I thought he had said he put grits on the ants, but you’d have to be about half-addled to do something like that, and H.B. is, without doubt, of sound mind.

I know a lot about grits. I know they are misunderstood. The reason people from regions other than the South don’t like grits is they have never had them prepared properly.

They are traveling through the South and stop at a Hojo for breakfast and the waitress serves them grits with their eggs and bacon.

They’re probably instant grits to begin with, and I’m sure it’s in the Bible somewhere that instant grits are an unholy hybrid of the real thing.

Also, our travelers don’t know to put butter on their grits and then stir their eggs and bacon into them and salt and pepper to taste.

So their grits taste awful. And when they return home, they are asked, “Did you have any grits?”

And they say, “The worse thing we ever ate. Almost ruined our trip to Disney World.”

But grits on an anthill?

“You didn’t really put grits on these ant beds, did you?” I said to my stepfather.

“That’s exactly what I said. Putting grits on ant beds is an old remedy for getting rid of ants.”

“Giving Northerners unbuttered instant grits is an old remedy for getting rid of tourists, too,” I said.

“What’s supposed to happen,” H.B. went on, “is the ants try to eat the individual little grits and they get so full they explode and die.”

I’ve heard of other old remedies. I know if you put tobacco juice on a bee sting, it will quit hurting.

I know to put a pork chop around an ugly child’s neck to get the dogs to play with him, and I know if you bury a dishrag under a full moon your warts will go away.

But, again, grits on an anthill?

So I asked, “How are the grits working on the ants?”

“These ants,” answered H.B., “don’t seem to be interested in grits.”

“Aha!” I said. “They’re Northern ants.”

“How do you know?”

“Elementary,” I said. “They refuse to eat grits, and look how many of them are wearing sandals with black socks.”

I told my stepfather not to worry about the ants. They’d be on their way to Disney World in a matter of days.